


Means of Life

by wrabbit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: fic_promptly, Drug Addiction, M/M, Prompt Fic, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:26:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Please," John said, once he had Lestrade still shivering but at last resting back in the armchair with his leg elevated. "You'll make yourself sick."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Means of Life

After an unflatteringly lengthly hesitation at John's silent offer of assistance in the hallway, Lestrade leaned almost too heavily against John with one arm slung over his shoulders. They made their way awkwardly up the staircase, Lestrade hesitating and nearly pulling John backwards when he would move to ascend a step. As Lestrade used him as a crutch, all the time John's mind was lingering on the stick he had hiding under the couch upstairs, about the two of them from now on.

Their sitting room was currently a labyrinth of stacks of books topped with teacups, mugs and the occasional plate. Lestrade's grip on his upper arm warned John against leaving him at the door to clear a path through the mess and so he guided them on a picked path across the room, with experienced turns and careful edging of Lestrade and his cast around the furniture.

John turned his back so as not to watch Lestrade as he lowered himself into John's chair and fastidiously found a position that didn't turn agonizing after a few moments. John poured out the contents of a water glass from the night before and refilled it with tap water. He set it and two oval white pills on top of an encyclopaedia on the side table. Lestrade was pale and sweating and his muscles trembling with the effort to hold himself contorted in the chair, the heel of the cast around his throbbing leg propped in an unnatural position on the floor.

John pulled over a stack of oversized books to the base of the chair, raising it with a few sturdy French dictionaries and a flatish, soft pillow as he waited for Lestrade to prepare himself for the move.

"Please," John said, once he had Lestrade still shivering but at last resting back in the armchair with his leg elevated. "You'll make yourself sick."

Lestrade stared down at John with conflicted eyes, breathing heavily through his mouth. John met his troubled gaze patiently while he easily kept every expression from his own face.

"One," John offered. He touched Lestrade's unbroken leg and smiled briefly when Lestrade nodded.

Lestrade reached for the pill without having to ask, but John placed a steadying hand on the bottom of the glass for a moment when Lestrade's hand shook as he drank from it slowly.

John leaned back with his hands on the carpet. He watched as the other man let his body conform to the chair by degrees over time as he glacially relaxed into an uneasy sleep

He was still sitting there, watching, when Sherlock shut the door downstairs with surprising conscientiousness. He continued up the stairs with equally controlled steps.

John turned to watch as Sherlock's gaze slid and snagged on every detail of the scene, like tendrils of smoke curling around the shattered leg, the pill on the encyclopaedia, John's hand wrapped around Lestrade's ankle and even sweeping up to explore the crevices under Lestrade's shut eyes.

John turned back to his patient as Sherlock made a small clearing sound in his throat and finally stepped into his own living room.

Sherlock came to stand by Lestrade, eyes glancing over the bulge of a pill bottle in John's jacket. "You can keep those in the locked drawer where I kept your credit card. If you want," he said quietly so as not to wake the man sleeping between them.

"You can ask him that," John said steadily. He waved Sherlock away when Lestrade twitched in his sleep, moving to crawl closer, slow with his own sore muscles. "Later," he said. "Not now."


End file.
